Tuck Me In
by The Devil's Feet
Summary: Sherlock can't sleep. It's been months, but his mind won't shut off. After nights of tossing and turning in his bed, he finally asks John to help. And not even the greatest mind in England could have foreseen the consequences. A Calabash and Drifta fic. Yes, we're finally resubmitting the old stories! Rated M for chapter two
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes:_

_So, as promised, here is the first installment of Tuck Me In. I edited it a bit on my part, which as some of you will know, is Sherlock, so there might be a few minor changes to the story._

_As always, the fabulous Calabash lends her hand to John Watson, and I try my very best to keep up as Sherlock. Thank you all so much for being patient with us. I know it's been a long time, but we're getting things back on track, and we should have all of our old stories, plus some new ones up before long!_

_Oh, and I suppose I ought to have disclaimers, eh? We don't own Sherlock, John, or any of the other characters. We don't have any control over the BBC production, though we'd very much like to. And, sadly enough, we own neither Benedict Cumberbatch nor Martin Freeman._

* * *

They'd been sleeping together for over three months now. It had been 97 days, and as strange as the arrangement would seem to the outside observer, for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, it worked. It was an unintentional shift that had turned into a consensual understanding, and though it was completely and utterly devoid of sexual connotation, there was a striking comfort in knowing after a long day at the surgery, or toiling on a homicide investigation, waiting at the flat was a warm bed and a warm body within. 97 days... and John Watson could remember the first night as if it were yesterday.

* * *

Sherlock's mind was racing. He could not shut it off; he could not grasp the elusive concept of sleep, no matter how hard he had tried. This problem had plagued him for so long, yet he had never known how to fix it without the drugs. Now that he had gone clean he didn't know how to deal with his mind running on and yammering at him, with him, to him. He didn't know how to turn off all those little voices that spoke to him, that argued with each other. Every time he closed his eyes they would start up, all screaming at the same time, insisting on his attention. Sherlock rolled over, his eyes wide open. His bed was cold, it was always cold no matter how long he slept in it. He let out a loud groan and sat up. _John._ John was a doctor; he could do something for him. Sherlock snatched up his blue dressing gown and trudged up the stairs until he stood before John's bedroom door, his hand paused for a moment before he knocked three times.

John stirred in his blankets, groaning softly as he registered the rap on his door. Sherlock. "Damn it," he swore under his breath, propping himself up on his elbows and blinking blearily at the clock. It was after three. He sighed, tugging the blankets off of his body, scooting to the edge of the mattress. It had better not be a case... His bare feet slapped the wooden floor as he shuffled to the door, and pulled it open. "Sherlock?" John lifted his eyebrows. Sherlock stood before him, robe hanging off his shoulder, clad in a ratty t-shirt and pyjama pants. His dark hair was tousled, and his eyes bright. His cheekbones were splotched with crimson. John's physician's senses began sirening at once, and he opened the door wider for his friend. "Come in, what's wrong, are you feeling all right?" He watched him closely as Sherlock edged into his bedroom cautiously. John resisted the urge to reach out and touch Sherlock's forehead to check for a temperature.

Sherlock clenched his hand a few times; he could feel John trying not to hover over him, trying not to act like a mother hen. His nose twitched and he frowned a little before leaning up against John's bed and sticking his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. 'I can't sleep,' Sherlock looked John in the eyes and gulped. 'I need you to give me something. You're a doctor of sorts. You can write me a note, get me some pills. I need to sleep.'

John blinked wide eyes, his brow furrowing as he lifted his eyebrows further. "You can't sleep?" he asked, stepping closer to examine that long, pale face. "How long now?"

Sherlock dragged his hands through his hair in frustration. 'How long? Months. I can't sleep, John, I need something.' He jiggled his leg and started pacing around the room, unable to stop moving. 'I don't know how to stop without my ... without it.' Sherlock's jaw twitched and he stopped for a moment to look at John once more. 'You've got to give me something.'

John stared. "Did you say months?" He scowled, and tossed his head at the bed. "Sit down." Sherlock obeyed, grudgingly, and John stood before him, leaning down to closely study those silver eyes, alight and reflecting the moonlight streaming in from John's bedroom window. Sherlock twitched beneath him as John's fingers lifted his eyelids. He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sherlock... Why didn't you come to me before?"

Sherlock sneered a little without meaning to, his lip curling in distain. Why hadn't he? Admitting that he, Sherlock Holmes, had a problem sleeping? 'Didn't think about it,' he lied, staring down at the thick carpet surrounding John's bed. The bed was a lot firmer than Sherlock's. He wasn't surprised, John must have gotten used to sleeping on hard surfaces in Afghanistan. Sherlock could never sleep on a mattress like this consistently without a very good reason to do so.

John sighed. He turned away from the tall figure, and began to pace, his mind running through his options. He had pills he could give Sherlock... had some in his bureau right now. They were tucked neatly in a small plastic zippered bag, left over from his sleepless nights alone in his vacant, horrid little flat he'd had... before Sherlock. His eyes darted to the drawer, and his hands flexed. Instinct screamed at him to walk over to that drawer, pull out two Thorazine, and give his friend what he needed to sleep the night away, to calm the manic process of that magnificent brain. But logic whispered otherwise. He frowned, rotating slowly to face Sherlock. "No."

Sherlock's eyes flicked from John to the drawer he'd been looking at. They were there. Top drawer. 'No...' he pursed his lips together and let out a little sigh. 'No.' His eye twitched, 'John...how am I supposed to be able to sleep?' He hadn't had more than a few hours of sleep a night long before he and John started living together. It was beginning to take its toll on the sleuth; he was getting more and more erratic, more antsy. He surged up and advanced on John, his hands frantically scratching his scalp. 'I. Can't. Sleep.' He tapped his foot exactly 10 times, staring down at John and swaying a little. Sherlock shook his head and began to mutter, walking past the doctor and standing, gazing at the wooden door, his hands twitching. Maybe a book, maybe the telly. _Oh God, another night staring at the damn telly._

John wheeled about, following the slender detective, and he grabbed his elbow, forcing him to look down at him. "Sherlock, it's not good for you, I can't just... give you pills and make you sleep. You'll get addicted. That's what you do. It's who you are, and I won't be the one responsible for depriving you of natural sleep. Come on, you can sleep, you just need to stop thinking so damned much." He smiled encouragingly, his thumb brushing the satin dressing gown that hung from Sherlock's thin frame. "Have you tried just... clearing your mind?"

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. 'Stop thinking? Oh, John, I envy you. Stop thinking. It must be so nice to be you; it must be so nice to turn it off, to not think.' Tried? Of course he had tried! Sherlock had tried every single trick in the Goddamn book, but nothing worked. Nothing. And he would continue to spend his nights staring at the ceiling, watching the telly, gazing at some trite novel, scraping away at his violin, not sleeping. 'It's not so easy.' he groaned, desperation filling his lungs.

John pressed his lips together. He didn't mind the insults, they came far too frequently to really mind anymore, but he did mind the frustration in Sherlock's face. Frustration meant irritation, and irritation meant trouble. His friend had come to him for help, and John was going to help. One way or another. Still gripping his elbow, John pulled Sherlock towards the door, ignoring the fact that he was still in his boxers and undershirt and bare feet. "Come on then. I'll fix you a spot of tea and milk, and you'll be right as rain."

Sherlock snorted. 'I doubt tea will be able to fix it.' he intoned dully, half tempted to dig his heels in and demand do be released. But he didn't, in fact Sherlock rather liked the warmth that radiated from John's small, strong hand. It was strangely comforting, the firm grip on Sherlock's arm, as though the short doctor would somehow come up with a miracle allowing the exhausted detective to sleep, as though everything would be quite all right. John was such an enigma, Sherlock felt at ease when he was around. John was, for lack of a better term, safe. Sherlock never liked safe before he met John. Sherlock had never known safe before he had met John.

"Tea fixes everything," John muttered, smiling back at him in the darkness of the stairwell. He descended, dragging his flat mate behind him, but instead of heading for the sitting room and their respective comfy chairs, John steered Sherlock to his bedroom, and pushed open the door. He glanced about, eyes adjusting to the deeper darkness. The room was immaculately clean... one of Sherlock's better days then... but his bed was rumpled and looked thoroughly tossed. He shook his head, releasing the man's elbow. John approached the bed, quirking his mouth. "Sherlock, when was the last time you changed your sheets?" They had various chemical stains, and smelled musty.

Sherlock frowned. Come to think of it, it had been a very long time since he'd bothered. 'I don't use it often, what's the point? I could be spending my valuable time on solving a crime, or something useful like tobacco ash.' he quipped, a slight ring of resentment as he glared at the mattress, as though it were at fault for his not being able to sleep.

John sighed deeply. "Where do you keep your linens?"

Sherlock pointed a long arm at the closet to the right of John. He was still a little bemused as to why they both were in the room, what was John thinking? Sherlock wasn't used to other people in his room, especially not like this.

John strode over to the closet, and pulled it open. "SHIT!" He ducked backwards, covering his nose. It was full from floor to ceiling with equipment and several flasks containing a foul looking substance. Shoved in one corner, Sherlock's sheets were wadded and wrinkled. John cursed again, shutting the door to the linen closet swiftly. "Bloody hell, Sherlock... how can you possibly keep something like that with linens?"

Resisting an urge to smile at John's comical reaction, Sherlock walked up and stood behind the smaller man, surveying the contents of his closet with a thoughtful expression on his tired face. 'It's an experiment. I didn't have any other spot to put it,' he said pointedly. Sherlock knew very well that John would have gone ballistic if he'd found it in the kitchen where Sherlock had first thought to put it.

"An experiment." John latched the closet door and shook his head, scratching at the back of his neck. He was so damned tired. "Just... just wait here." John turned and jogged upstairs once more, muttering under his breath, and he returned in a few moments with arms full of clean, crisp, fragrant sheets. "Here," he said, shoving them at his friend. "Strip the bed and put these on while I start the kettle." He didn't wait for a reply, but stalked from the room, complaining softly about experiments in linen closets.

Sherlock held the sheets in his arms for a long moment, glancing to make sure John had really gone before lifting them up to his nose and breathing in the comforting smell that was John Watson. He hugged them tightly to his chest briefly before setting them carefully down on the night stand by his bed. Sherlock then proceeded to unceremoniously ripped the old, dirty fabric from his bed and throw it forcefully at the opposite wall. Then, with a great deal of fussing, he slowly made up the bed. Sherlock stooped for a bit, just resting his hands on the white flannel. Something about it made him feel warm. It was nothing like his sheets, these sheets felt loved, and of course that was not strange, for they were John's. Sherlock smiled softly and shook his head, feeling oddly fond of his short companion.

John waited in the kitchen for the kettle to boil. He'd searched the cabinets until he found the last of the chamomile tea, and as he poured Sherlock a cup, he felt a rush of affection for the man. He could hear Sherlock in his room, rustling the fresh sheets, and John's mouth turned up a bit. He was such a child sometimes. As an afterthought, as he placed the cup on a saucer, John grabbed a biscuit from the tin on the counter, and he walked carefully to Sherlock's room. He stepped through the doorway, and halted. Sherlock was waiting for him, standing at the foot of his poorly made bed, looking hopeful and proud of himself. John cleared his throat. He was obviously waiting for praise from his good doctor. "That's... that's good, Sherlock, very nice indeed." John smiled at him, receiving a small, relieved smile in return. He placed the saucer on the night stand and gestured. "Come on, off with the robe and I'll tuck you in."

Sherlock's heart leapt and he couldn't help but grin happily as he saw the smile on John's face. But then he frowned. 'Tuck me in...' he repeated dubiously. Sherlock had never once been "tucked in", not that he could remember at least, and he could remember every second of his life. He walked to the bed, let his dressing gown fall to the floor, and got in anyway, trusting that John knew what he was doing. After all, how hard could tucking someone in be? The sheets felt so warm as they closed around him, surrounding him with the smell of John Watson. Sherlock scooted over a little, lying over to one side as the doctor stood patiently by the bed. Sherlock looked up and blinked, wondering what was going to happen next.

"Here." John handed him the saucer, snickering internally at the wide eyed curiosity in Sherlock's face. Sometimes, it was as if he was experiencing life for the first time. John had been privy to several momentous occasions in Sherlock's life... his first ice cream... his first experience with crap telly... his first food fight, which had not been well received by Mrs Hudson... Now, John inclined his head as Sherlock took the saucer from him, long fingers wrapping around the tea cup, and he wondered... "Yes, tuck you in," he reiterated, grinning widely at Sherlock's uplifted brow. "You know... didn't your mother ever tuck you in, read you a story?"

Sherlock was silent for a very long time, just staring at John with curiosity. Was that what mothers did? Read their children stories? Tuck them in? 'I was capable of reading; she had no need of it.' Sherlock's mother had never been overly loving, it had always been Mycroft who tried to fill in for her, a fact that annoyed Sherlock to no end. He frowned.

John shook his head, a sad smile still plastered on his face, and he exhaled slowly. "That's.. a bloody tragedy, that is." He stood with his arms folded, watching Sherlock sip his tea and nibble at his biscuit, those light eyes thoughtful. John shrugged. "Well, then, I guess I'll be off. You've got fresh linens, and a cuppa tea. Just... lie down, Sherlock, and if you HAVE to think, try to think of something quiet. Like a beach. A nice, quiet beach with no corpses. Close your eyes and I'll see you in the morning." He turned to leave.

Sherlock bit his lip, his heart already beginning to pound, his head already starting to speak up. 'John,' he called out softly, flushing a little as John turned around with a questioning look on his over-tired face. 'Would you, ahem, sit in here for a little while? I think I...' he gulped, steeling himself for the embarrassing statement he was about to make, 'could fall asleep better if you talked.' Sherlock stared intently at his own long fingers, as if they were the most interesting things in the universe.

_ Did he just ask me to stay?_ John gazed down at Sherlock in the bed, took in the flush in his cheeks, the downcast eyes, the twitch of those fingers on the cup. He felt his throat tighten. _He wants me to tuck him in_, John realized. It took him less than two seconds to back into the bedroom once more, and stand with his knees pressed against Sherlock's mattress. He tilted his head at Sherlock questioningly, indicating with his hand for him to scoot over.

Sherlock repressed a smile as he wriggled a little farther to the other side. He took a sip of his tea and sat in his bed, for the first time in this room, feeling warm and at home.

John was, for the first time, painfully aware of his own state of undress. His cheeks were rosy as he climbed onto the bed, purposefully reclining on top of Sherlock's blankets, and he propped himself up against a pillow. "All right," he said with a chuckle, shoulder rubbing against his companion's, "Would you like a bed time story, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak for fear of saying something completely ridiculous and laughable. A strange feeling was settling in his chest, an odd tightness. He had felt it before but had always ignored it, thinking it was due to a case or was because of something he'd eaten. Now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock kept drinking his tea, waiting for John to start. 'Wouldn't...' he began but then stopped and decided against finishing the sentence. John knew what he was doing.

John had opened his mouth, but now he shut it again, and turned his head to look at Sherlock. "Wouldn't what?"

Sherlock shifted a little, still not looking at John. For some reason he was keenly aware of the fact that John was only in a t-shirt and his boxers. 'Wouldn't you be more comfortable under the covers?' He asked, wishing that he had just kept his mouth shut to begin with.

John felt the heat rise in his face and neck. He shifted. Perhaps Sherlock was uncomfortable seeing him like this. He was, after all, a very private man. John, on the other hand, was not very comfortable sliding beneath a mountain of blankets and sheets to snuggle in half naked with his best friend. He blinked, still gazing at Sherlock's profile, a few inches away. "Yeah, I guess so," he mumbled, and with a resigned sigh, he manuevered beneath. The sheets felt wonderfully soft and warm against his skin; the flat was chilled, and John was fiercely glad he'd brought down the flannel linens. He nestled down for a few seconds, then looked up at Sherlock once more. His heart jumped in his chest. Those silver eyes were staring directly into his, far, far too close.

Sherlock's heart pounded in his ears. He could feel the heat wafting from John's compact body and was grateful for it. Sherlock leaned down and set the teacup down on the floor next to his side of the bed. Without a word he settled down under the covers, looking at the John, waiting for him to begin.

John gazed down at the younger man, his chest tight. He looked so... perfectly innocent, so lovely and childish. John wanted nothing more at the moment than to watch those great, glassy eyes fall shut to the sound of his voice. He reached over in the half darkness, and pulled the sheets further up that sinewy body, tucking them gingerly beneath Sherlock's chin. "I don't know any good stories, Sherlock... but I suppose I can tell you some stories from Afghanistan. Had some good times there."

'That would be...nice.' Sherlock was already feeling more relaxed than he had in months. John had this effect on the consulting detective, it was a strange feeling, but Sherlock was glad for it. 'I would very much like to hear about Afghanistan. I've never been there before.'

"No?" John smiled gently, and his hand lingered by Sherlock's face. He held his breath, and did something he'd always wanted to do: he let his fingers wander into that thick mass of dark, curly hair, threading through them, coming to rest on the crown of his head. John was deeply surprised at the pleasure that coursed through him at the feel of their softness, and he let his eyes slide shut. Sherlock did not push his hand away, and so he continued to speak, ignoring the slight tremor in his voice. "It's... well its hot. And dry. But there's a rugged beauty to it, a kind of raw, chiselled look to the land." He could not help but hear the comparison in his description... he could have been describing Sherlock. "It's misunderstood, I think. A lot of the fellows hated it there, but I didn't. Seemed to me that it was just a gorgeous piece of forgotten land. Torn up by people, scarred and cut up a bit... but beautiful."

Sherlock smiled drowsily, leaning into John's comforting hand that was absentmindedly stroking his hair. 'Sounds'…_like you_, was what Sherlock wanted to say, 'like a nice place.' his eyelids kept fluttering, sleep was starting to settle in as John's voice continued to wash over him. More than half asleep, Sherlock moved slightly so he was closer to John. Turning on his side, he placed a hand on John's firm chest. He let out a contented sigh, surrendering completely to sleep. Sherlock was safe.

John continued to talk, whispering to the darkness, for several moments. He did not stir or move a muscle as Sherlock's slender hand came to rest on his chest, and he barely breathed as that soft head nestled into his pillow, forehead pressed snugly against John's hip. Sherlock's breathing became heavy and regular, and at last, John found the courage to glance down at him. Sherlock was asleep. His aquiline face was peaceful, and calm, and a tiny smile played in the corners of his mouth. He began to snore ever so softly, and John swallowed hard. He wondered briefly if he could squirm out from Sherlock's hand to slip back upstairs and finish out his night's rest... but one look at that restful face killed the idea. No, he would not do anything, anything at all, to disturb this sleeping man tonight. John sighed, and leaned back, closing his eyes, and letting sleep overtake him.

Sherlock felt so warm, so very peaceful. He had never been this relaxed before. Slowly he opened his eyes and his heart skipped a few beats as he realised his head was resting on John's shoulder, Sherlock could feel the doctor's chest rising and falling rhythmically under his hand, John's arm wrapped around Sherlock's shoulder. This was...this was nothing like Sherlock had ever experienced in his life. He had never woken up next to someone before, especially not like this. He lay there for a very long time, wondering if he should get up or continue to stay here, curled up in John's warmth. The decision was soon settled for him as his eyes closed and sleep over took him yet again. It was 9:42 in the morning. Sherlock had slept all night for the first time in a very long time.

The first thing that John registered was sunlight. It hit his eyes squarely, and he flinched against it, against the warm red glow behind his eyelids. His body felt... strange. Hot. Flat. He shifted, wondering distantly if he'd gone to the pub the night before, if he had gotten knackered, if he was waking up in a strange flat with a strange woman pressed against him... He hadn't done that in years. But as he moved his bones, his nostrils picked up a lovely, familiar, comforting scent. It was masculine, and clean, and... John sat up as straight as he could, grunting. Shit. He couldn't move. Sherlock was sprawled over him, long legs tangled with John's, head heavy on his shoulder, and bloody hell, John's arm was wrapped tightly around him, pulling him close. John flushed scarlet. He chewed on his lip, glancing about, trying to figure out a way to slide out without waking him... and his eyes fell on the clock. "BOLLOCKS!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he bolted up, expecting...well, expecting something, anything, but all he saw was John leaping out of bed, swearing loudly and running for the door impatiently. Sherlock looked at the clock and lifted an eyebrow in understanding. It was almost noon and John was about, oh, four hours late for work. Sherlock bit back a laugh. He felt so well rested, it was brilliant.

John blasted up the stairs with the devil on his heels, cursing the whole way. Damn Sherlock! Damn him and his tea and his stories and his insomnia and his bloody damned gorgeous eyes and his hands and his pouting lower lip! He was out the front door of their flat in seven minutes, barrelling down the street, shouting for a cab.

They did not mention the incident at dinner, and they did not mention it during their evening telly. John sat and pretended to blog for an hour, and Sherlock tinkered with an experiment in the kitchen... thankfully a far less foul one than the one John found in his linen closet... and after a quick visit from Mrs. Hudson, John began to inch towards the stairs. He was sore, and stiff from sitting up all night. He eyed Sherlock, evidently still engrossed in his work. John turned silently, taking a single step towards his bedroom.

Sherlock was debating with himself whether or not to ask John to sleep with him again. He had enjoyed it immensely; in fact it had been one of the single most enjoyable experiences of his life. The moment he heard John move to the stairs Sherlock made up his mind. Ice blue eyes darted to his fingers watching them without really seeing them as they twitched on the wooden table top. Sherlock glanced at John's back. 'John,' he said quietly, noting the way John stiffened defensively. 'Would you...' Sherlock cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed a little, 'tuck me in?'

John froze the moment Sherlock called his name, but when the next few words fell from his lips, he felt all of the air rush from his body at once. Those words, coming from that mouth, were inequitable. He rotated slowly on his socked heel, and stared back at the man hunched over their dining table, gazing intently at a glass vial. John opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish. At last, he walked back to the kitchen, standing across from Sherlock and leaning in. "I'm sorry... what?"

Sherlock twiddled with the half-full vial of a 17% boric acid solution. 'I, well, it was better than pills, easier...and I was wondering,' he cleared his throat again, though this time it had more of a nervous, self-conscious ring to it. 'If you would tuck me in again.' he mumbled the last bit and could feel his neck, face, and ears beginning to heat up. He was being childish, he knew it. This was the time when he should have just told John it was nothing, he should have told John to bugger off upstairs, but he didn't.

Oh now this was too good. John stepped back, lifting his chin and musing silently. He could really take the piss out of Sherlock for this one. This was brilliant, this was priceless, this was... Sherlock's eyes flitted up to his, and John's heart skipped. This was Sherlock, asking for help again. Trust. There was no greater trust than the one his dear friend had just bestowed upon him. To fall asleep next to someone implied a level of intimacy and faith that John had rarely experienced, and certainly he had never experienced it with another man... someone whom he loved. John's glee dissipated, and he felt himself drawn into that clear gaze. He dropped his head. "All right," he agreed quietly, and did not look up to see Sherlock's face. He shifted on the linoleum. "I'm... I'm going to run upstairs, get my pillow." He couldn't spend another night sitting up in Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock couldn't help but shake his fists with excitement after John had disappeared upstairs. He held back the whoop of joy and settled for getting up from the stool and walking happily to his room. It was a good feeling, knowing he would have some extra heat in his bed. It was a good feeling knowing John would be by him, knowing he would not be alone. Sherlock did not like being alone. Quickly he undressed and put his pyjamas on before making his way to the loo and brushing his teeth vigorously for a few minutes. He then splashed water over his face, dried it, and walked back to his bed. John would be with him tonight. Sherlock smiled.

When John made his appearance in Sherlock's bedroom door, this time quite carefully ensconced in long pants and a t-shirt, he stood for a moment, startled. Sherlock was already in bed, clean, brushed, pyjamaed, and sitting with his long legs drawn up to his chest beneath the blankets, eyes bright and trained on his army doctor. John chuckled. "Tired then, are you?" he asked, and shuffled inside, crawling up the mattress. He slipped beneath the blankets, sighing in relief at the warmth already present from Sherlock's lean body, and he fluffed his pillow behind his neck. John hesitated a minute, then reclined back fully, his sandy blonde head coming to rest in his pillow, body horizontal next to Sherlock as the detective settled back as well.

'Not yet,' Sherlock replied happily as John made a dent in Sherlock's bed. 'But I'm sure it'll come soon enough.' He turned on his side, cradling his head in the crook of his elbow, and stared at the doctor, waiting for him to continue on where he had left off the night before. 'Afghanistan...you were telling me about the time you found a flower patch and nearly got whacked to death by an old lady for disgracing a scared spot.' Sherlock prompted, wiggling down in the mattress.

John laughed out loud, throwing his head back and wondering how in the bloody hell he had ended up in Sherlock's bed again, giggling, relishing the smell of Sherlock's shampoo. He cleared his throat, throwing a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, well. It's not the first sacrilege I've committed and I'm sure it won't be the last." His hands twitched beneath the blankets. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's chest and thighs, and he was hyper aware of the proximity of Sherlock's lean calves to his toes.

Sherlock laughed, 'what's the fun in life if you aren't stepping on someone's toes?' He resisted moving in closer to John. Sherlock felt a little confused as to why he wanted to touch John, to be right next to him, to put his arms around that body, to feel John embrace him. It was not something Sherlock was used to. His lips twitched and he pulled the piles of blankets around his shoulders, then carefully stretched his arm out and did the same for John, making sure the covers went up to his neck. Without looking at John's face he retracted his hand and hid it under the blankets, slightly embarrassed.

The doctor lay very still as Sherlock "tucked him in." He breathed steadily, deeply, and turned his head at last to gaze at the sculpted face, mere inches from his own. He blinked twice. Sherlock was not looking at him, but down, at the blankets. John pulled his hand out from beneath the sheets, and slowly, very slowly, reached up to run once more through those glossy curls. He felt Sherlock stiffen, then relax under his hand. "Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly got attacked by a desert long-eared bat?" he whispered, willing those eyes to meet his own.

Sherlock shook his head and glanced surreptitiously at John, he almost stopped breathing as he met John's eyes. The doctor was staring at him intently, a look Sherlock had never seen before in his beautiful blue eyes. His low voice sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. 'No.' he exhaled, unable to stop staring at John's face. Beautiful eyes? Sherlock supposed they were.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock." It was a firm, but gentle instruction, and John said it for two reasons. First of all, the whole point of this absurd suggestion was to lull Sherlock to sleep. Second... John could not look into those eyes for one second more. The moment they were turned on him, he felt his insides turn to ice, and he had to avert his gaze. Sherlock obeyed him, however, and John turned his attention back to that unlined, beautiful face. "Well... it all started because we found this rocky crevice, and some of us decided to give it a climb..." His voice was quiet and even in the dark, and John Watson talked far into the night, until he grew drowsy, until Sherlock fell asleep next to him, until he curled his body close once more. Then one muscular arm reached around, sliding beneath bony shoulders, and that dark head came up to rest upon his chest again, and John fell asleep with his nose buried deep in his flat mate's fragrant curls.

Weeks turned into months and soon Sherlock didn't have to ask, John automatically got ready for bed and slid in next to him every night. Sherlock actually began to look forward to the night. It was such a relief to know that he would not be alone, that he would be able to fall asleep listening to the peaceful rumble of John's voice. It had been 97 days since Sherlock had asked for John's help, and it had been 59 days since Sherlock began to feel as though something was missing, and only 23 days since Sherlock had figured out what that was. 23 days since Sherlock realised he was in love with John Watson. And he had no idea how to express it.

John, for his part, had stopped resisting the lull to Sherlock's bed after the third night. He wrestled with his confusion for the first 48 hours, unsure why it was so very easy to climb into that bed every evening, why it felt so incredibly satisfying to wake at three in the morning to use the loo and have to untangle himself from Sherlock's long, possessive limbs, why he was so perfectly comfortable staggering out of bed in the mornings, giving his companion a shake to rouse him, rubbing his eyes, yawning, all set to the chorus of Sherlock's whispery snores. After 48 hours, John simply shrugged and chalked it up to the extreme intimacy of their friendship. It was not threatening... it was simply... Sherlock. And John was swiftly learning that where Sherlock was concerned, all the experience in the world could not prepare him for the constantly shifting dynamics of his new life with this man. And so John slept in Sherlock's bed every night, willingly, contentedly... and if he occasionally woke with Sherlock's thigh pressed between his legs, and a spindly hand slipped beneath his t-shirt, grazing his stomach, and if he was hard and panting slightly from a faceless, nameless erotic dream... well. John Watson was only human after all.

Sherlock had been going crazy these past few weeks, he tried to keep it from John, but he wasn't sure how to deal with these emotions that had surfaced. He hadn't realised how deeply he was in love with that straight as an arrow man until they had started sleeping together. Sherlock felt like grabbing John and smothering him with kisses every single time he opened his mouth, every time they were alone Sherlock had to stop himself from putting his arms around John's waist, from resting his face on John's head and just breathing in the scent from his shampoo. Every time he woke up in the middle of the night from an incredibly vivid dream that involved him doing unspeakable things to John's person, he had to sit for awake for a little while and just regulate his erratic heartbeat. Once in a while he would lean down and press a soft kiss on John's cheek; lately he had been so bold as to even brush a finger across those beautiful lips.

Sherlock had been trying to formulate a plan that would allow him to "confess" yet still maintain his friendship with John if the revelation of his feelings went awry, as Sherlock had no doubt they would. He was in one such contemplation on a Friday night, lying curled up on the sofa with his back to the world, while John was in the kitchen rummaging about. John, too, had been acting a little off the past few weeks. Sherlock could not, for the life of him, figure out why. Some days he feared that John had guessed his feelings already, after all John always was better when it came to matters of the heart, and was upset with him. But then John would completely disprove that thought and Sherlock would sink down into relief and a sort of dark, unreasonable annoyance.

"Where is it... where, where... ah." John straightened from his questing through the icebox, and he plunked a frozen dinner on the countertop with satisfaction. "Sherlock," he called, rubbing his hands on his thighs to warm them. He sauntered into the sitting room, placing his hands on the back of his armchair. "I set your dinner out; just warm it up, all right? I won't be back till late… don't wait up." His chest fluttered a bit as Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his in a panic, and John smiled kindly. "You'll be fine. Just... go to sleep. If I come home tonight, I'll come to bed."

Sherlock watched John suit up and leave their flat in silence, not even bothering to answer his flamate when he spoke to him, wishing him a good night. Instead he pushed down the turmoil deep inside his heart and sat up, roaming around their flat until sometime later when he found himself in John's room. Sherlock did not often come in here, not unless he needed something and John was not around. He looked about the room and smiled at the somewhat Spartan furnishings, it spoke volumes as to what kind of character John had. Sherlock just stood there, closing his eyes and opening up a door in his mind palace, filing away every detail of John's room. The dark wooden bureau, the comfortable green and brown rug around the firm mattress and wooden bedstead, the closet to one end of the room ... everything was so John. How was Sherlock ever going to tell him how much he needed that damn army doctor?! He did not know. Sherlock had briefly entertained the idea of pushing John down on the bed and just ripping his clothes off. It had been a distracting thought at the time, but not a practical plan.

The sleuth stood there for a little while longer before snatching up another pillow from the bed - one that smelled more like John than the pillow he kept in Sherlock's room, and clattered down the stairs. As usual on the nights John was not around, he did not feel like dinner, it wasn't an appetizing thought. Instead he went straight to his room and snuggled down in the sheets that belonged to John and held up the commandeered pillow to his face, inhaling deeply. It wasn't as good as having John there, but it would suffice.

It was 2 AM. John glanced at his mobile as the cab pulled up to 221, and he sighed. No texts from Sherlock. It was unusual; his best friend tended to text him incessantly when he had a date. He'd often wondered if Sherlock did it on purpose, to get under his skin. But not tonight. Tonight, Sherlock had been gravely silent, not even bidding him farewell when he left the flat. John paid the cabby, and trudged up the stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky step that always woke Mrs. Hudson. He turned the key in the lock, and let himself in, taking a deep breath as the familiar scent of his home, his flat, his Sherlock, filled his lungs. Home. John sighed deeply, leaning back against the door and closing his eyes. What the bloody hell was he doing here? His forehead crinkled, and he slid down slowly, resting it on his knees. He shouldn't be here. He'd had a date tonight, a bloody gorgeous one. She had to have been at least ten years his junior, and was, in his honest and humble opinion, far out of his league. She was tall, and slender, with an ample chest and a full head of copper hair. Her eyes were bright green, her skin flawless, her legs long, and... she'd invited him up to her flat. For drinks. John had been around long enough to know that flush in her cheeks and the demure treble in her voice. He could have gotten laid. He could have shagged her. She wanted him, for inexplicable reasons. But, fuck. Instead of following that short skirt up the stairs to her bed, John had found his lips forming words that he could not explain. No thanks... its late… best be off... Next time, perhaps... John thunked his head once, hard, against the door. Next time. The look she'd given him as he retreated back to the cab said quite plainly, there would be no next time. He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and pushed himself up, swaying. He was tired. And Sherlock was waiting. John dropped his jacket on the sofa, toed off his shoes, and staggered towards Sherlock's bedroom, peeling clothes off the whole way. Fuck pyjamas. He was exhausted.

Sherlock was having the strangest dream; John was there, almost completely naked this time, only his boxers on, which was quite a change from the normally fully clothed John in the beginnings Sherlock's usual dreams. John was sliding into bed next to him and putting his arms around Sherlock, telling him to kiss him, telling him how the woman whose smell he reeked of couldn't hold a candle to Sherlock, how Sherlock was the only one for him. Sherlock smiled in his sleep and, not knowing that the real John had just climbed half naked into his bed, put his arms around that real John's chest and nuzzled his neck, sighing softly, full lips nearly brushing the warm skin. But that was where he could tell something was terribly wrong. That was where he opened his eyes in confusion and saw the real John only a few centimetres away from him. That was when he saw the look of shock and possibly horror, he couldn't quite tell, after all, it was very late at night and Sherlock was still a little dazed by this sudden shift from dream to reality, on John's face. And the only thought that was present at that moment inside Sherlock Holmes' head was a rather bemused _well, fuck.._.

Sherlock's body was so very warm beneath the sheets. John grumbled in the back of his throat as he slid into bed, naked but for his boxers, half-drunk with sleep. He poked at his friend, urging him to scoot over, give John a bit of space, and that seemed to work. Sherlock rolled, groaning softly, and John huffed as he pulled the blankets over his body. He settled back, sighing in appreciation for the heat and comfort of clean linens, and a warm body next to him, and the thought flashed through him mind that this... this was really quite nice. To have someone to sleep with, someone you didn't have to fix up for, someone that you knew would still be there the next night, and the night after, and the night after. He wondered why more blokes didn't think of this. It was rather perfect.

John's head sank in his pillow, and he glanced over at Sherlock with a contented smile. The smile broadened as he registered the fact that Sherlock, his arrogant, brilliant, sociopathic companion... was cuddling John's spare pillow. His pillow. From his bedroom. John giggled quietly, reaching out to brush his rough fingertips over one jutting cheekbone. Damned idiot. He must have snuck upstairs to nick it. John shook his head, fondness radiating from his eyes. Damned idiot. He turned away then, yawning, and closed his eyes, stretching one arm over his head. He was almost asleep, in that place half way between slumber and wakefulness, when Sherlock whined in his sleep, shifting, and John felt the weight of a sinewy arm slither across his chest. He frowned, grunting, and moved his head to look down at him. Sherlock was curling closer, and John gasped as that long nose nudged into the space beneath his ear. It was cold, and Sherlock's hands were warm as they played up the muscles of his abdomen, and John felt his throat go dry. "Sherlock..." Grey eyes flew open. John held very, very still as Sherlock lifted his chin to gaze into his eyes, his mouth open, round, trembling.

Sherlock felt like a deer in the headlights. 'John...' Reality was quickly flying back to slam into Sherlock's face. He had just practically kissed the real John fucking Watson's neck without realising it. 'The real John,' Sherlock groaned and pushed himself away from John, pulling his legs up to his neck and burrowing his face into the bony flesh, his cheeks were pink. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck. The real fucking John. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot,' Sherlock muttered to himself, unaware that he was doing it verbally and not just in his head, 'not how it was supposed...maybe he's too drunk to...fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.' Sherlock groaned again, hoping John would just be out of it, that he would not make a fuss, that he would...forget.

John blinked rapidly as he watched Sherlock shrivel up and curse, repeatedly, muttering under his breath. John had to strain to make anything out. "Sherlock?" He was wide awake now, and he squirmed, managing to prop himself up against the pillows on his elbows. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John frowned when he didn't answer, and then... "Oh." John flushed, heat rising from his neck to his extremities, and he glanced away, embarrassed for his friend, for his unemotional, purely logical, evidently sexually frustrated friend. John cleared his throat, eyes wide and looking around the room, at the closet, the window, the floor, anything but Sherlock. "Ah," he started, his mind frantically trying to supply him with a clever remark, something that would alleviate Sherlock's humiliation. "Ah, Sherlock... um.." John cleared his throat again, and smiled as best he could in the darkness, reaching out to pat his mate on the shoulder. "Look, it's all right, it happens to all of us. Don't... I mean... I'm not upset, okay? It's fine. It's fine." He chewed on his lip as Sherlock continued to stare down into his knees. John glanced at the door. "Um... if you like I can... you know..." He gestured with his thumb. "Pop upstairs, let you..." He coughed, not wanting to use the word 'wank' in the same context with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock flinched when he felt John touch his shoulder, he couldn't help it. The pure humiliation of the situation had put his nerves on edge. '...it happens to all of us...' he repeated woodenly. '...pop upstairs...' he started laughing a desperate laugh, 'that's not going to change anything. Now you know, it's not how I wanted to tell you, it's not how I had it figured out, well, I hadn't figured it quite out, just...I didn't think it'd happen like this and I -' Sherlock had lifted his head through the outburst and stopped when he saw John's face, John's confused, curious face. '...ohhh, you didn't...DAMN IT ALL.' Sherlock felt traumatized, he was never going to speak again. John hadn't even thought that Sherlock had meant that display of emotion for him and now Sherlock had all but spelled it out for him. No wonder why he hadn't been more aggravated at the embrace! No wonder there hadn't been a more violent reaction! He hadn't KNOWN. All of the blood drained from his cheeks and he felt a dull throbbing in his gut. Now John would really... Sherlock was sure that John would not be able to accept him, especially when he had offers from women who were much more attractive than plain Sherlock Holmes whose only attribute was also his worse feature; his brain. Sherlock closed his mouth and suddenly pulled the blankets over his head and curled up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, cursing silently.

John sat for several moments, staring at the lump of Sherlock's body beneath the sheets. His face was blank as he tried to slowly, methodically, process the last few minutes. He wished for the thousandth time that he had just a sliver of the brilliance of that amazing mind that lay within the walls of Sherlock's skull, because Sherlock knew everything, could read everyone, and right at that second, John could not read a damned thing. He sat perfectly still, fascinated by the gentle rhythm of Sherlock's breath beneath the blankets. Sherlock. John's eyebrows knit. The real John... that's what he'd said. Figured it out... figured what out? Tell him what? John sighed, too groggy to make sense of Sherlock's inane ramblings. The only thing he knew for sure was that Sherlock was upset, and John needed to comfort him. It was what he did. "Sherlock?" He placed a warm hand on that curved back, felt the bony spine beneath the blanket. It was alien, and his fingers tingled. "Sherlock, are you all right? You can talk to me. I'm your friend."

'Just go away, John,' Sherlock moaned dramatically, trying to shrug John's hand off while still keeping the circumference of his curled form covered by the thick blanket. 'I know you won't want to continue our arrangement now you know my feelings for you.' He lay there for a bit, waiting for John to move, but when he didn't Sherlock frowned. _What on earth?_ He popped his head up over the covers suspiciously. What was John waiting for? Why the hell was he still trying to comfort him? Why was he being so damn reasonable?

Oh. Oh. Bugger. John was staring at the wall, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes unseeing. His feelings. Sherlock's... feelings. John's breath came fast and shallow, and he swallowed, hard. Sherlock had feelings for him. Sherlock... oh bloody hell. The dream. It was for John. He'd been dreaming about John, and... the real John, oh fuck, he'd said the real John, he'd woken up and realized he was touching the real John, not the imaginary John he'd been touching in his dreams, shit, oh fuck, oh bloody fuck, Sherlock was dreaming about fucking John. Sherlock Holmes had feelings for John Watson.

John was hyperventilating. He forced himself to calm, to breathe through his nose, to blink his eyes, to stop digging his nails into the mattress. He managed a look at his flat mate, and felt a stab of guilt. Sherlock was gaping up at him, his lean face etched with agony. John pressed his lips together, trembling from head to toe, and for a moment, he allowed himself to mourn; he mourned the loss of the simplicity of their friendship, he mourned the last three months of sweet, pure, unadulterated slumber, he mourned Sherlock's innocence. And then, as Sherlock curled in on himself once more, John squeezed his eyes shut, and he knew what he had to do. "Sherlock. Look at me."


	2. Chapter 2

Here is chapter two, as promised. Thank you all so much for the patience and kind reviews! They mean so much to us, and I promise we'll get back to all of you just as soon as we have time!

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Sherlock shook his head vehemently. He would run away. That's what he would do. Surely piracy was more of a realistic option now than it had been in his past! Maybe it wasn't as grand as he had imagined it as a child, but it was better than this. It would be better than the awkward silences that he knew would follow. 'You don't have to give it a thought, John. You don't have to be so...kind.' He felt so much sorrow as he spoke the last word; he knew that any sort of platitude would be because John wanted to spare his feelings. It would be because John was too kind for his own good. 'Just go to bed.' _I'll be gone in the morning_.

"I am in bed." John's voice had grown firmer. The tremor was gone. His hands had stopped shaking. He licked his lips, regulating his breathing again, his chest still rising and falling heavily. This was madness. This was completely barmy. This was... perfect. It was perfect; it could not be more perfect. It was Sherlock, wanting him. And though John had spent three months in bed with this man, though he'd never once thought of reaching for him and changing this relationship forever, now that it hung in the air between them, John could not think of a single other thing he wanted more in the universe than Sherlock Holmes, writhing in his arms and calling out his name. Of course this should happen, had to happen. John could not suppress the laugh that barked from his throat. He was a blind fool, and it took a sociopath to show him the light. "Sherlock, look at me right now," he growled. He trailed one hand up Sherlock's side, plucking at his elbow.

Sherlock's whole body was shaking, he knew he couldn't just block out this experience, John was getting angry. The air in the room had changed, it tingled with a rare sort of electricity that the detective had never, ever encountered. Sherlock felt John's hand at his elbow and slowly looked up. 'What?' He asked in an agonized voice, slowly dragging his gaze to meet John's. Sherlock almost couldn't bear to look at that gorgeous face, that beautifully formed mouth, the adorable nose, those deep and ardent eyes. And as he looked at John he could not help but begin to babble, to plead with the man. 'Please, John, can't we forget this? Can we go back to before? I don't want to...please, please. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to run away and be a damn pirate! I just want to be with you...'

John opened his mouth at the word "pirate", but closed it again, shaking his head. He leaned over the thin frame of his best mate, drawing close, fingers closing over Sherlock's elbow, pulling it down to the mattress and forcing Sherlock onto his back. Those eyes widened, and John felt his heart tighten at the sight of him. Sherlock lay, sorrowful and frightened, cradled in the soft cushion of his bed, dark curls sticking to his forehead. His limbs were gangly and limp against the mattress, his chest exposed and pale, his neck long and inviting, and John's heart began to hammer in his breast as he leaned over him, shadowing that beautiful, sculpted face from the moonlight. "No, Sherlock, we can't forget this," he breathed, and loved the way Sherlock shuddered when the warm air from his lungs danced across his face. "At least, I can't. My brain isn't a hard drive, Sherlock. It's a rolodex, an old fashioned filing system that never gets cleaned out, and just accumulates more and more until its overflowing, and damn it all, Sherlock, every fucking file is overflowing with you." And before John's mind could screech him to a halt, he bent, right leg sliding between Sherlock's thighs, hands on the pillow on either side of his head... And John kissed him.

Sherlock was bemused when John pushed him on his back, horrified when John said they couldn't forget, shocked when John's leg came in contact with his crotch, and incredibly aroused when John kissed him. Sherlock had never been kissed before, and he found that, really, he quite liked it. It wasn't half as wet as he'd imagined. He pushed up into John's lips, wiry arms closing around John's broad shoulders, bringing the strange man closer to him. Sherlock wanted to feel as much of John as he could; he wanted that naked, tanned skin to come in contact with his own. Oh God, how he wanted John Watson. His erection was more than enough evidence of that.

John moaned into Sherlock's closed, pliant lips as he felt the twitch of a hard cock against his thigh. He dug it in, shocked by his own enthusiastic response to Sherlock's arousal; his body was stirring, heating, flames licking at his groin as he embraced the one man in the world whom he couldn't live without. John pulled back a moment, staring into darkened coal eyes, and he smiled, nuzzling Sherlock's nose. "It's okay," he whispered. "Move your mouth with mine, Sherlock." Shit. He'd never been kissed before. John was blown away by this revelation, and he panted, diving in to taste those petal soft lips once more.

Sherlock did as he was told, trying his best to move in time with John. He was amazed at how delightful those firm lips felt, how fucking good that hot mouth tasted. Sherlock shifted against John's leg, he didn't understand it, he didn't know why it was happening to him of all people, but all he could think of was how badly he needed more friction. Sherlock let out a whimper, his hands sliding down John's chest, feeling all of him, all of those glorious muscles. His tongue was prodded by John's and with that invitation he moved it, searching the insides of John's mouth.

John felt all of the blood in his cheeks rush suddenly south, and he gasped as Sherlock's curious, tentative tongue wrapped around his own. "F..Mmfph.." he cried lowly into the embrace, and a shudder ran through him as Sherlock's hands explored his naked chest, slipping around to his back, pulling him closer. Sherlock was beginning to thrust against his hip, his erection rock hard and hot; John could feel it through the soft cotton boxers he wore, and he was startled by the mad desire to rip off his shorts, rip off Sherlock's, and rut. He swallowed another cry, and slowly, hungrily, began to rock his own desperately hard cock into the jutting hipbone beneath him.

All the air gushed out of Sherlock's lungs as he felt John's hard-on hit him, rocking into his thin body with an eager burst of energy. '...more!' He hissed, sucking John's neck, licking and kissing it inexpertly. His hands had slipped under the boxers and began to run along John's firm arse, feeling the soft, pliant skin. 'Oh fuck... John, I need more.' He pushed against John, removing his hands from John's shorts and trying to pull his own shirt off. Sherlock wasn't really sure where to go from here, or what was going to happen. He didn't know how he was going to be able to get enough of John; all Sherlock knew was that he was damn well going to try.

His head was reeling. John arched sharply as Sherlock's hands dove into his shorts, cupping, rubbing, exploring his buttocks, and he let out a guttural groan, tilting his head, letting Sherlock devour the skin of his neck. He shouldn't have done that. John sucked in cool air through his teeth, his eyes huge. "Fuck, yesssss..." His neck was too sensitive, he knew that, he knew what it did to him, and yet... John rutted harder, thrusting against Sherlock's hips, shifting to line up their cocks, and biting down hard on his lower lip as Sherlock removed his hands long enough to rip at his night shirt. John's eyes raked over the porcelain expanse of skin, and he drove his body down again, pleasure exploding behind his eyes, tingling in his scalp, as Sherlock begged for more. He lowered himself fully on that gorgeous body, chest to chest, nipples brushing, eliciting a gasp from the detective. John kissed his slack mouth again. "More, Sherlock?" he whispered fiercely, abusing the cock beneath him with his own. Sherlock tossed his head, straining. "More? You need more?"

Sherlock moaned and writhed beneath John, this was more pleasure than he had ever thought possible. Never in his dreams had he ever imagined just how bloody good it would feel to have another body thrusting against one's own. 'Yes!' he gasped against John's mouth, feeling that cock pound against his own with a desperate, needy passion that drove him to distraction with need. 'What do I do, John?' He asked, running his hands down John's sides, kissing at his jaw line. 'Where do I...?' Sherlock let out a little sound of desperation as he felt John's hands on his skin.

There was something pathetic and pleading about Sherlock's breathless whines. He was lost, and John... well, though John had never been with a man before, he certainly knew how to pleasure himself, and he knew how to pleasure Sherlock. His mind was racing, his body screaming, his blood pumping, and he began to feel something... a tingle, building in his gut, dancing through his nerve endings, pooling between his legs. His balls tightened, and he pushed himself up and away from Sherlock's tremulous body. He stared down at him, panting in the darkness. "Sherlock..." Fuck. He needed to ask. This was Sherlock's first kiss, first... everything. John could taste the lust for him, could feel it like a physical force, pressing down on him, urging him to take that body and fuck it until Sherlock remembered nothing, not the types of tobacco, not the varieties of perfume... not his own name. But... "Sherlock. How... far do you want to take this?" his voice was raspy and hoarse.

Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest, so loud he was half sure John could hear it. The cold that immediately settled in after John had moved away from him made Sherlock desperate to get him back. He sat up and moved against John, pulling his waist until they were flat against each other. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and pushed up close until they were almost kissing. 'I want to go as far as we can, and I don't want to stop there. God, John, I want to own all of you,' He breathed, trying to quell the thought that he needed to get as much of John as he could before the morning dawned and John came back to his senses. Before Sherlock Holmes would turn into a pumpkin and John would not want him anymore. 'I,' he kissed John's nose, 'want,' he kissed John's upper lip, 'to,' he kissed John's lower lip, 'fuck' he kissed John's chin, 'you,' he kissed John's neck 'hard.'

John knew that he should be indignant. He'd assumed he would fuck Sherlock. Well, why not, he was more experienced, he was... straight. Sort of. Perhaps. Maybe. He should be the one inside this body, pumping him with his thick cock, taking Sherlock from trembling virgin to screaming, begging, mess of a sociopathic consulting detective. But... Sherlock's lips trailed down his neck, and John bucked, unable to control the need, the desperation washing over him. He let his fingers graze down Sherlock's bare sternum, and tease lightly at his cock, tenting his crotch. He groaned as smooth teeth took hold of his earlobe and rolled it. John bucked again, and inside, he caved. Just this once. It was Sherlock's first time... just this once. "Wait here," he grated out, and with a great effort, he scrambled out of the bed, his erection painful and throbbing as he took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. He pushed through the door, fingers shaking as they snatched open the drawer of his nightstand, searching... searching...

Sherlock blinked at the sudden exit John made. What the _fuck_ was he doing? Had Sherlock said something wrong? Was John offended that he had automatically assumed dominant the position? _"Wait here"…_ what was he doing? What could he possibly need now? Sherlock bit his lip and surreptitiously touched in-between his legs, an action he'd really never done before, but damn it all, he was so hard it_ hurt_! Sherlock had never masturbated once in his life, he had never needed to; he'd never been attracted to anything in his life. He knew what the people at the Yard thought, they thought he got off on the crimes, probably that he wanked to the image of a corpse, but Sherlock had never even remotely thought that the words sex and himself belonged in the same sentence, not before now. Now all he could think of was shagging John. And if Sherlock was a little vague as to how he was going to achieve that, well, he'd figure it out somehow.

John's feet skidded on the floor as he reached Sherlock's bedroom door again, his hand clasped tightly around a small plastic, half used bottle of lubricant. He silently rejoiced in his overactive libido, and the fact that he was always prepared for a good wank in the middle of the night... His body felt as if it were on fire as he tumbled back into Sherlock's bed, and saw what awaited him there. Sherlock was crouched, breathing heavily, dewy with sweat, glistening and white. He reached out for John, and the doctor wasted no time, guiding his hands to the waistband of his shorts, murmuring wordless encouragement. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly, tenderly. "Go on then."

Sherlock pushed down the only article of clothing that stood between John being completely naked. Sherlock's heart beat out an erratic tattoo as he saw John's cock, he kissed the spot right above where the trail of John's brown pubic hair became thick, right below his belly button. He looked up at John, feeling the tip of that hot cock on his bare skin, shuddering a little in anticipation. The consulting detective pulled John down on the bed, lying him flat out on his back, crawling over him and pushing down his own pyjama bottoms. Sherlock felt as though he should be embarrassed to be in nothing but his skivvies, but as he saw the way John looked at his crotch, at the erection beneath the short pair of black boxer briefs that hung low on his skinny hips, all Sherlock could feel was an immense amount of arousal and a little bit of pride at the way John licked his lips. Sherlock smiled and kissed John's chest, eyeing the bottle of lube clutched in John's hand, and with a little trepidation, moved to take it from him. He was 90 per cent sure he knew exactly what it was for.

"Right... ahhhh..." John wriggled on the bed beneath his lover, eyes trained on the magnificent sight of Sherlock, naked except for his tight, black boxer briefs, and the very large, very tempting bulge that flexed below. Sherlock's hand was wandering his body as those clear eyes peered curiously at the bottle, bringing it close to read the back label. John gasped as warm fingers slid through his hair at the base of his cock, and he arched, his spine curving off the bed. "Shit... Uh... right then, Sherlock... fuck..." He was having difficulty forming a sentence as Sherlock's hand began to rub his length firmly, absently, and John whimpered. "Sherlock, you don't have to read the instructions," he said, frustration coloring his deep voice. "Just... fuck... Just give it here." John sat up; snatching the bottle and flicking it open with one thumb. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements, intent and bright, and John could almost hear the gears of that brain whirring, memorializing, learning. He squeezed out a generous amount in his palm, and after a moment of incredulity for what he was about to do, John took a deep breath, hooked his other hand into Sherlock's shorts, and pushed them down, revealing a long, wet, angry, red cock. His breath escaped him in a harsh hiss, and John felt his mouth begin to water. Fuck, this was new. He gulped, trying desperately to retain control of his senses, and slowly, he lowered his slick palm to Sherlock's erection, capturing those eyes, keeping them.

Sherlock let out a loud moan as John's cold, wet hand touched his cock, a little startled at how very good it felt. 'Ffffffuuuuck, John,' he gasped, looking into John's eyes. Sherlock could not close his lips, he kept moaning and letting out little sighs of pleasure as John's hand closed around his hot, pulsating erection and began caressing it. His eyes nearly rolled back into his skull. This was...this was... 'Oh! John!'

"Oh, shit." John could come up with no other words as Sherlock began to gently cant into the slippery tunnel of his fist, slowly, then faster, more erratic, his throat bobbing, his head falling back. He looked bloody glorious. Just this once, John thought with a whimper, and began to rotate his own hips, grinding his ass into the mattress wantonly. "Tell me how it feels," he said huskily, and he slid his fingers up that throbbing cock, tightening them over the bulbous head, playing with the slit, feeling Sherlock's violent judders.

'It feels... haaaaaaah... oh God, John, I've never fel...t... hannngg... Like… J..ohnnn! ' He licked his lips and looked down at John practically fucking the mattress below him. Sherlock bent his shoulders forward, touching John's cheek briefly before tracing down his neck and brushing the pads of his fingers across a nipple. As he did so, Sherlock noticed the shudder it elicited and brought his fingers up to graze it again, moving against John's hand, feeling the pleasure begin to corrode his insides. Sherlock needed more. 'John...' He pushed John down onto the bed again and looked at him, biting his lip. He needed more but he didn't want to damage John. Sherlock moved his other hand to John's cock and teased it a little before trailing his fingers down the other side of it, passing down his balls, until he found what he was looking forward. Sherlock nearly stopped breathing, this was...he was sure this was what he was supposed to do. The sleuth recalled some distant memory of a conversation he had overheard at a gay bar once when he'd been looking for clues on a case. He needed to make sure John was prepared.

John stiffened as soon as those lithe fingers slid down past his balls. He knew what was coming, and... for the first time in his life, John was scared to have sex. He held his breath, every muscle in his body seizing up at once, and as Sherlock's eyes met his, he tried to smile, tried to let him know that yes, it was okay, he could touch him, he could explore... but John was fucking terrified. He raised one shaky hand, indicating the Sherlock should do the same. "H..Here. Give me your fingers."

Sherlock frowned, a little worried that he was doing something terribly wrong. He removed his hand from near John's arse and gave it to John, almost holding his breath in anticipation as to what his companion was going to do next. Sherlock desperately wanted this to be good for John.

The bottle reappeared, and John could not help but chuckle a bit at the dawning light in his lover's eyes. He trickled it over two of Sherlock's long, oh, so bloody long fingers. They were beautiful, crooking and glistening as John slicked them, and Sherlock rubbed them together, fascinated. John was beginning to breathe fast again. He could not swallow. His throat was too dry. How the fuck had this happened? He could have been shagging a red head right now... How was he on his back, cock aching, body trembling, legs spreading for bloody Sherlock Holmes? John strained a bit as his friend ducked his head, flicking a tongue over his nipples. Sherlock was a fast learner; he'd already registered and filed John's weak spots. He widened his legs, chanting to himself... Just this once...Just this once... Just this once... Cold, wet digits found the puckered opening again, and John gasped, "Fuck... Just push them in, one at a time."

Sherlock obeyed John's commands and slowly slid one finger in, feeling the tightness surround it. He moved it around in curiosity, pushing at the smooth, hot walls of John's body. He felt John's body jolt around the intrusion, just a little, and he smiled at the reaction. Sherlock let the breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding out in one gusty sigh, twisting the digit around and crooking it several times. Then came his second finger and he heard John whimper. Immediately Sherlock stopped and looked up at John's face, worried he was going too fast. 'Am I… should I slow down?'

"Fuck... no." This wasn't good, this wasn't right, this wasn't good, this... oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck... It used up every bit of mental strength John had not to lose himself and begin impaling himself on those fingers. John's eyes were wide open, unblinking as he stared up at the ceiling, stomach muscles flexing, thighs taut, toes curled. His dick wept and pulsed and twitched between his legs, and John raked in the air, deliberately not looking down at the young man kneeling between his legs, fucking him with his fingers. He couldn't. He couldn't look down there because he was about a hairs breadth from shooting his load all over his chest, and this fact was purely staggering. John let his mouth fall open, let a long and ragged groan rip from it, and he closed his eyes at last against the sensual onslaught. Sherlock's fingers sped up, and he spread his legs wider, pleasure coursing through him, pleasure like he'd never ever known before. "Oh.. mmm...hhnn... Sh...Sh...eeerlock... fuck that's... so good..."

Sherlock could barely contain himself as he heard the string on nonsensical words and sounds falling from John's lips as he shook and writhed to the pace of the detective's fingers. 'John...' Sherlock's lips parted and he pushed up against John, shoving a third finger in and stretching that tight hole as much as he could, 'can I now? Please... I...' He grasped one of John's hands and pressed it against his hard cock, trying to illustrate what he meant. He wanted, no, he needed to be inside John as quickly as he could. The overwhelming sense of need and desire was second to nothing the poor man had ever felt before, and if he did not ease it soon he would burst. Sherlock needed to be buried deep inside that gorgeous arse.

John could only manage a "Hnn... aahh..." and he squeezed Sherlock's dick once before letting it go, and twisting round on the bed, on his elbows and knees, spread wide, arse in the air. He was shaking uncontrollably, hyperventilating a little again, and at the loss of those wonderful fingers, he could feel his hole tighten and loosen rhythmically, longing for the filling sensation again. John rocked backwards encouragingly, once again amazing himself at the willingness, the eagerness of his own body. He needed Sherlock, needed him splitting him open, needed him fucking him with the long cock. Right. Fucking. Now.

Sherlock saw the arse wiggle invitingly in the cool air and his mind went blank. It amazed him how one man's body could produce such a mind shattering effect on his person. Slowly, eagerly, the younger man knelt up and grasped John's firm hips in his hands. Then, with a loud groan, he grasped his cock and, lining it up with the willing entrance, pushed into John. Fireworks burst inside his skull as his cock eased further and further inside that hot arse. Sherlock could see stars as he felt how gloriously tight John was, how his hole caressed Sherlock's dick. Slowly Sherlock began to make small rocking movements, his prick still mostly buried deep within John, gradually quickening. This was sheer madness. This was pure pleasure and Sherlock revelled in it. He let himself go, finally. Allowing himself to be overridden by lust. Allowing the loud sounds of skin slapping against skin and both of their cries and moans to intertwine and crash against each other, as Sherlock and John became one. He could feel John 's body roll back to meet his and his own quickening, picking up the pace. Faster and faster and faster until Sherlock's body could no longer take the pleasure that was quickly building up inside him. 'Haaaaaah! Ahnnnn...J...ohnnn, oh Gooood, John! Oh fuck! John!' He felt himself cum for the first time in his life. Sherlock had never known this much pleasure, he had never known he could feel like this. He reached around John and with a trembling hand he grasped John's cock, touching his thumb to the little slit and rubbing the precum around, John felt so good.

This was utterly impossible. John felt as if he were a stranger, watching from a dark corner as his body began to take control, began to act on its own, rutting backwards, writhing, rolling with every thrust until the sounds pouring like water from his mouth were constant and frantic. The sensations were dizzying and crashed over him in wave after wave of euphoria, and the pain of being penetrated evaporated in the ecstasy of Sherlock's damned, fucking, perfectly wicked cock as it ravaged him. "FUCK!" John began screaming into the pillow, feeling the precise moment when Sherlock orgasmed, pumping his white, hot, thick seed into John's body, and it hit him deep inside. "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUCCCKKK!" His mind went blank. Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock, and that gorgeous dick was still inside him, still semi- hard, still splitting him in half, and John lost himself. The edges of his vision went black. His muscles stiffened. His balls tightened, and his cock exploded, all over the clean linen sheets.

Sherlock felt John cum into his hand and, almost immediately, he felt his own cock rustle again, but no, he would not... Sherlock carefully pulled out of John and collapsed on the bed, pulling John down on top of him. Laughter began to bubble up in his chest as the waves of his first orgasm began to slowly roll away, leaving the panting detective sated and tired. 'John,' he nibbled John's earlobe lightly, 'that was...' Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, 'was it...did you enjoy it?' Sherlock hoped John had liked it, that it had been as good for him as it had been for Sherlock. He held the compact body tightly against him, feeling John's own heart thumping against his chest. Oh God, how Sherlock loved this man. Now all he could do was hope that John loved him as much or...even just a little. Hell, he'd take what he could get at this point. Anything to be granted access to John's delectable body once more!

Just this once. Just this once. John breathed shallowly against Sherlock's chest, his heart racing, his head just now beginning to clear. Never, never in his entire life had John felt anything so... remarkably freeing and wonderful. He was tempted to dissolve into sobs, to just lie and cry in Sherlock's arms. He'd just let his flat mate shag him in the arse, fuck him till he screamed, and... John turned, rotating slowly in his grip, and he pressed warm lips to Sherlock's mouth. "It was brilliant," he murmured.

Relief flooded Sherlock and he kissed John back with remarkable enthusiasm. 'I'm glad,' he whispered against John's lips, grinning. 'Oh, John...' Sherlock did not want to let go of John, it felt so good, so right just to hold him close, to feel that body move against his. But Sherlock knew sooner or later he would have to stop, so with a reluctant sigh he loosened his grip so that John could get up if he so chose. 'John...' he pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. At this point, Sherlock knew that he could go for another round, or two, or three, but he would not even ask. Ignoring the flicker inside him that demanded more, that screamed for more attention, Sherlock let go of his companion. He would wait to see how this developed. After all, John was the deciding factor, it seemed, to Sherlock's life. This moment was almost omnipotent. And so, with a calm face, Sherlock sat up and glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He was half afraid that if he left him, he would come back to his senses and run up to his room and bolt the door and never come out again.

"Hm?" John felt like one of Mrs. Hudson's Christmas puddings. He lay; completely limp on the bed, a tiny smile quirking his mouth. That bloody red head wouldn't have held a candle to this.

'I...I think I need a shower...' Sherlock looked down at himself, a little chagrined. _Damn._ Even though he knew the import of this very moment, his body was not cooperating! Already his prick had begun to stir, just at the sight of John's naked body next to his. The quick recovery time must be because of the lack of sex in his life, surely. Or maybe it was John Watson. Sherlock was always better with John.

"Mm. Yeah." A shower sounded fucking perfect. John felt his eyelids droop, and he nestled further into the blankets. Damn, he felt good. Aching and burning and... where was Sherlock going? John blinked lazily up at him as the tall, limber man rose from the bed, his eyes darting, his naked body all angular and gorgeous and... John lifted his eyebrows. Hard. Sherlock was hard.

Sherlock flushed and turned around, trying to hide from John's curious gaze. 'I...I'll be back,' he blurted out and quickly bolted for the door.

John watched him leave, the image of Sherlock's rock hard body making its way sluggishly to his cranium. His eyes widened. "Wait for me!" he cried out, and rocketed himself out of bed, his ankles getting tangled in the sheets.

Sherlock ran to the loo as fast as he could, his face a violent shade of pink. Surely this wasn't going to happen all the time, right? Right? He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a few moments before walking shakily to the shower and turning it on as hot as he could stand it. Sherlock had absolutely no experience in this whole "over active libido" problem he was facing. He did not know the protocol for how many times in a row one ought to have sex. Besides, he could not ask John to do anything for him... taking it up the bum must be incredibly draining and painful. Sherlock bit his lip and stepped in the shower, pulling the curtains around him and gasping a little as the hot water rained down on his excited body. So many new sensations were cropping up tonight.

Damn, Sherlock was fast. It wasn't fair, John thought as he scrambled after him, trying to suppress the giggles and the sharp hiss of pain that tried to escape his lips as he thrust himself out of Sherlock's bedroom, down the hall. Sherlock's legs were longer. How was John supposed to keep up with those long legs? Those... wonderful, strong, lean, sinewy legs... He shook his head as he reached the bathroom, hesitating a moment outside the door. He heard the shower beginning to run, heard the curtain rustle. John frowned. His hand hovered over the knob, and the thought occurred to him: what if Sherlock didn't want his company? What if Sherlock needed some time alone, to process what had just happened? John froze, his chest suddenly very tight. Oh, bloody hell. What if Sherlock was panicking? What if he was already regretting it? What if... what if... John ran his sticky fingers through his hair, wincing. He needed a shower. He was... fuck, he was covered in his own cum, and a great deal of Sherlock's was slippery on his thighs. His cheeks burned. As the tempo of the water within changed, he closed his eyes. He could picture Sherlock, naked and hard, ducking beneath the stream, and John felt his own groin stir. This was... novel. A tiny gasp sounded inside, and John's hand was turning the doorknob of its own accord.

Sherlock was leaning against one wall of the shower, his feet anchoring him against the floor, his pale toes just touching the opposite wall. One long, slender hand was experimentally brushing at his hard, throbbing cock, his other arm was thrown back behind him, hand splayed on the wet tile wall. 'Fuuuck, Johnnn...' he moaned as the water sprayed down on his body, making the dark curls atop his head stick to his face and neck. Quite suddenly he heard the door open and whipped his head around. There was John standing in the doorway, his eyes bulging slightly, his hand frozen on the door knob as he stared directly at the young detective in front of him. Sherlock's lips parted, he tried to speak but he could not formulate the words. John had just walked in on him wanking and moaning the man's very own name. Never mind that they'd just had sex, never mind they were both men, never mind any of that, it was still as embarrassing as hell.

John stood for several seconds, just staring. Sherlock was tossing off in the shower. His Sherlock. The Sherlock that was all ice and logic and deduction and ridicule. Not that John believed it, or had ever believed it; he knew Sherlock had a heart from the moment he met him. Those eyes, they were his downfall. His lips could speak bitterly, his tongue could cleave a man's soul in half, his body revealed nothing but what Sherlock wished it to. But he could not deceive John, not when those eyes, wide and deep set, gazed back at him with such honestly, such openness. John felt his heart thunder beneath his sternum, and he took one step inside the loo, shutting the door behind him. "Oh, Sherlock," he found himself whispering, the sound nearly lost in the patter of the water, running down that white body in sensual rivers. "You're bloody beautiful."

Sherlock straightened up, he did not need to hear what John said, he could read those lips all too well. His heart nearly stopped, he could hear a ringing in his ears. He was beautiful? HE was... Sherlock frowned and he could feel his body trembling slightly, he hoped to God John could not tell. Sherlock could not remember when the last time, if ever, someone had called him beautiful. The words used to describe him that stuck out most were "freak", "unnatural", and "psychopath", though the last one made him snort every time he heard it. 'John, what? I-' he paused and leaned his shoulder against the wall, letting his head rest on the cool, wet surface. He wanted John so badly. Slowly, very slowly, he pointed an arm at John who was still standing in the doorway, all sticky and rumpled. Sherlock crooked a finger, beckoning him forward.

"Yes," John mumbled, his feet stumbling in his eagerness to climb into the shower with his lover. He bit his lip as the scalding hot water hit the cold flesh of his back, and he arched a bit away from it, and into Sherlock's trembling body. John reached out to steady himself, his rough hands finding purchase in Sherlock's shoulders, and for a long moment, they stood facing one another beneath the jetstream, panting, eyes boring into one another.

The feeling of John's naked body against his own wet one was almost too much for Sherlock. With a smile he bent down and captured John's mouth in his. The kiss sent jolts down Sherlock's spine and he closed his arms around John, pulling him as close as was humanly possible. Bony white hands made their way down his back until they reached John's buttocks. Sherlock kneaded his fingers in the soft flesh, eliciting a hungry moan from John. 'I want you, John.' he whispered in the doctor's ear, turning the statement into more of a request, asking if it was okay. Sherlock pushed against him, almost lifting John from the floor.

Shit... John was torn. He felt his body responding eagerly, pleadingly to Sherlock's attentions, an erection swelling once more between his legs..._bully for me, I've still got it_...as his arse began to flex, twitch, and jerk in anticipation. John pressed closer, gulping and shuddering as Sherlock's cock brushed his own, and he latched onto one pink nipple with his teeth, sucking, licking, tasting. Sherlock tasted fucking delicious. Sweet. Salty. Pure. He devoured, his hands clutching at those bony hips, rotating his own up against him, moaning. But when long fingers began to trail down his arse, seeking, John gasped and pulled away. His body may be demanding, but the dull ache from his extremely hard fuck was not gone, not even close. He reached back, stilling that hand. "Sherlock... Sherlock I want to do something, will you trust me?"

Sherlock let out a quiet whine as Jon grasped his hand, making him stop. He looked deep into John's eyes and nodded silently. _Anything._ Sherlock would do anything and everything for John Watson. There was no one in the world he trusted more than his short army doctor.

_ Thank God_. John groaned, leaning his head on Sherlock's chest and breathing deeply. From this vantage point, he could stare down at the long, spasming cock jutting out from a mass of black curls, and for the second time that night as he gazed at Sherlock's swollen dick, John's mouth began to water. He felt his knees go weak with the force of his desire, and he gave in to the sensation, letting himself fall, kneeling before Sherlock's quivering body. He was nose to tip with the gorgeous thing. John licked his lips, his eyes dragging up Sherlock's torso to his face, and he felt his own cock jump at the open wonder and disbelief written there.

Sherlock gulped, he had an idea as to what John was going to do, but he could not believe that he would do it. It was...unsanitary at best. Sherlock never saw the point in such actions; he didn't understand how they could be pleasurable for either party. Well, he understood that such stimulation to the erogenous zone could be very pleasurable for the receiver, in theory, however the idea of having someone's mouth around one's cock did not seem appealing in the least. But as John looked up at him Sherlock felt his breath come quicker, his whole body tense up with anticipation. '...John?'

"Yes, Sherlock?" John had turned his attention back to that cock, and he refused to take the time to think about why the hell his entire body was clamoring for this, why his lungs were pushing the air in and out like a marathon runner, why his hands were shaking so bad he had to steady them on Sherlock's lean thighs. He couldn't think about this right now. He would think about it later. Right now... John flicked his tongue out to lap lightly at the slit in Sherlock's cock, and tasted the salt there. He began to pant, rubbing his nose into the head, then ducked it to nuzzle the hairs below. They were thick, and soft, and wet, and he darted his tongue out again to tease his balls a little before sucking them in, rolling them around his hot mouth, and moaning. His own arousal was throbbing as he felt tremors wrack Sherlock's body. "Mmmmm..."

'Ohhhh Ggggooooddddd!' Sherlock cried out, slamming his hands against the wall of the shower to steady himself as John's tongue began to do wicked things to his cock. He took it back, any misgivings he had before now, any skepticism previously professed about this Sherlock now avidly redacted. 'FUuuuuuuccccccccccck me!' he arched his body, feeling John's hands dig into his hips as he swallowed Sherlock fully. The sleuth's eyes popped open as John hummed against his cock. Oh fuck. Sherlock tried holding back, but he couldn't help snapping his hips a little. It was too much, too much, too good. Sherlock moved an arm forward and grabbed John's hair, twisting his fingers in the wet sandy mop, tugging it, moaning and yammering nonsense. He could not form a coherent thought. Deep in the pit of his stomach Sherlock could feel that strange new sensation coiling up. He tried pushing John away, he did not want to cum all over his flat mate's face. 'John. Stop. Goi... fuuuck... going to cum... stttooooh Goood!'

John growled, and grabbed him by the arse, hauling him forward. Hell no, he wasn't going to stop. Not when Sherlock was coming to pieces all around him, and John was making it happen. He grinned, scraping his teeth over the bulging veins in Sherlock's dick, sliding one hand around to grasp the base as he concentrated on sucking just the sensitive, round, purple head. Sherlock began making those glorious sounds, the ones that he'd made as he pounded John's hole, not fifteen minutes prior. John peeked up, unable to help himself. Sherlock was holding himself up against the wall, the muscles in his arms convulsing, and his eyes were half lidded as he gazed down at John, servicing his cock. John groaned deeply. He sucked harder, biting down perhaps a little too hard on the head, and he began to stroke himself roughly, his legs spread on the wet, slippery floor. "Cum, Sherlock," he grated, his throat hoarse as Sherlock desperately tried to restrain himself from slamming into John's mouth. "Fuck my mouth, Sherlock, fuck it hard."

Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head. John was giving him permission to... to... the mere idea made Sherlock's head explode. "fuck it hard". Oh FUCK. Sherlock slammed against John, giving the man exactly what he wanted. He could not hold back, not now that he'd been told to go. Thrusting deep into John's throat, feeling his tongue try to move. It was too much. Sherlock slammed again and again, faster and faster, until with a loud scream he propelled his arms forward, grabbing onto John's shoulders and cumming in great spurts, shooting down the man's devilish mouth. Sherlock collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily. His legs felt weak, his whole body felt as though it had turned to mush. Sherlock let himself slide down until he was at the same level as John who was stroking himself with a passion. Sherlock leaned against him and gently pushed his hands away. It was the least he could do... Sherlock grasped onto John's cock and began to taunt it. Tickling the underside before grabbing on and pulling a little harder than was needed, rubbing his thumb around the head, pushing down on the slit. Sherlock smiled as he heard John groan in pleasure.

"Shiiiiiit..." John let his head fall back; the heat and taste of Sherlock's ejaculate still burning in his throat. He heaved, bucking up into that warm, slick hand, devoid of technique and experience, and so very very wonderful. John cried out in pain and ecstasy as Sherlock jerked his erection, hard, too hard, forceful and violent, and explosions of excitement and fear began to fire off in his brain. The knowledge came crashing in on him as Sherlock's fingers tightened, squeezing, torturing him as the other hand grasped at his balls, yanking on them as well. He liked it. He liked the pain, he liked the roughness, he liked the near agony and the screaming that was currently being ripped from his chest and the sweet relief as his body gave in, and his eyes flew open. His mouth gaped, and John shouted through his orgasm, unable to tear his eyes from Sherlock's fascinated, enraptured face. He rode the high for a long time, much longer than before, continuing to rock into those hands, until at last he literally sank onto the floor of the shower, cum leaking from his lips, from his arse, splattered all over his chest. John lay there, letting the water wash over him, and it was cold now. Sherlock's hands dragged through his hair.

Sherlock stared at John in fascination as he sprawled out on the shower floor. Sherlock could feel the sticky semen slowly begin to wash from his hands, stomach and legs but he did not care. All he cared about was John, beautiful John, wonderful John, amazing John. Carefully sliding his arms under the limp figure, Sherlock lifted John up and propped him against his own body. 'John, are you alright?' Sherlock asked, licking his lips and peering down into John's slack face. He felt John shiver a little and realised that the hot water had run out. _Bugger._ Sherlock lifted John onto his lap and, with a good deal of effort stood up. He would take care of his doctor.

John felt himself being lifted and carried out of the shower stall, bridal style, and he tried to protest, tried to raise his arms feebly, tried to squirm out of Sherlock's arms. This was damned undignified. But... he groaned, still completely knackered from the overwhelming climax, and at last he simply allowed Sherlock to carry him easily to his bed once more. John grumbled at the sight of it. It was rumbled, and bore evidences of their love making. He wrinkled his nose. "Bloody hell, I just got clean," he muttered softly.

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed at John's disgruntled words. He gently set the older man down on a chair and knelt down in front of him. 'Don't move.' He commanded, grasping John's chin and making him look Sherlock in the eyes. 'I'll take care of everything, just sit tight and be good.' He leaned forward and kissed John's forehead before getting up and hurrying out of the room. This time he was going to be the one taking care of John.

John sat on the chair and listened to Sherlock's frantic movements upstairs. He was looking for linens. John's eyes flicked to the linen closet in the corner that still housed some sort of wretched experiment, and he lifted his eyebrows, rubbing his head with a groan. He shifted on the chair, sighing. What the fuck had just happened? He eyes the bed suspiciously, as if it were at fault for the whole thing. Perhaps it was. This certainly hadn't been John's idea. No, it hadn't been his idea to kiss Sherlock, to touch him, to make him tremble, to spread his legs for him and let Sherlock fuck him into the mattress, to follow him into the shower and get on his knees and suck that cock, that lovely cock, that hot and sweet and amazing cock that made John want to bend over and get fucked again and again and... "Bloody hell. I'm a poof," he said to the darkness. Sherlock's feet were thundering down the stairs.

Sherlock reappeared in the room holding fresh linens and a towel. He dumped the sheets on the floor and hurried to John, wrapping the towel around his shoulders and began laboriously drying him off. When Sherlock was finally satisfied that John would not get too chilled from the cool air in their flat, he picked up the sheets again and set to work making the bed up, glancing over his shoulder at John every so often. Making sure he was staying put.

John rolled his eyes a bit when Sherlock's back was turned. "Sherlock... you don't have to look at me like that. I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

Sherlock frowned at him and shook his own dreadfully wet head. Without a word he picked up John yet again, pulled back the covers and lovingly set him down. 'Tea. Would you like me to put the kettle on?' He asked, pulling the covers up to John's chin and smoothing them out, giving John a lopsided smile.

"None for me, thanks." A poof. That's what he was. How the hell had he not known this before? John scowled a bit into the blankets, but a cool hand on his cheek brought him back to the moment, back to the flat... back to Sherlock. Oh. Sherlock. His heart skipped as he faced the younger man, with his brilliant eyes and smile and mind, and John felt a rush of relief. He wasn't a poof. Not at all. He'd never wanted another man in his life. But he did want Sherlock. He... he was in love with Sherlock. "Well, bollocks," he whispered, and leaned in for a kiss.

Sherlock kissed John back appreciatively, resting a hand his damp, sandy blonde hair. 'You're not going to leave the bed tomorrow, understood?' Sherlock eyed him shrewdly and leaning a little on John's chest. He had to admit he'd been worried. Worried that John would decide it was too strange getting shagged by a man, by Sherlock, but as soon as he saw that smile, Sherlock knew it was alright.

"I have to work." But oh, a lie in sounded like just the ticket. John chewed on his lip, sleep invading his senses once more. He'd be sore tomorrow... that counted for a sick day, didn't it? He rolled over onto his side, back to Sherlock's chest, and dragged one of his companion's arms over his waist to cradle against his breast. Sherlock's hand was splayed over his heart, and John took a deep breath, yawning. "Mm. We'll see."

Sherlock smiled against John's back, 'no, you're taking tomorrow off. You're going to lie in that damn bed all day, whether you like it or not. Now,' Sherlock roused himself and leaned over to kiss John lightly on the cheek. 'Shut your eyes, I'll be right back... just have to dry myself off.' He shivered a little as his own state of undress started to take its toll. The covers looked inviting and, well... maybe he didn't really need to dry off that badly. Only his head was wet now.

John was almost asleep. Sherlock's breath was rustling the hair on the back of his head, and he could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest behind him. His heart drummed against those long, twitching fingers, and for a long moment, there was silence. John swallowed. Everything, everything had just changed. Sherlock was quiet against him, but he felt the tension in his arms. Through the haze of exhaustion, John's voice was thick and deep in the blackness. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted the covers, keeping a bit of distance between them until he warmed up. 'Shhhh,' he stroked John's hair again and settled his head down on a pillow. 'Go to sleep, John Watson.' Sherlock smiled happily at his back, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his muscular figure in the half light. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped. Morning was creeping up on them, within an hour it would be dawn and Sherlock would wake up next to John just like he had done every morning for the past three months, only this time he would lean forward and give his John a kiss to start the day.

John heard Sherlock as if from a great distance. He wondered briefly if he would still have to tell stories about Afghanistan to tuck Sherlock in at night, or if they'd simply fuck until they were too tired to continue. Right now... that seemed like the logical option. He let himself drift off, still clutching Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock moved in closer until their bodies were touching. He still could not believe that John was his, that this whole thing had ever even happened. A small part of him felt that if he went to sleep he'd wake up and it would have all been a dream, but that was a very small part. Brushing his thumb against John's hand Sherlock inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of John. With one more tiny squeeze, he closed his eyes and let sleep over take him. Eager to start the new day, eager to wake up with John.


End file.
